My Mother's Lullaby
by JaneVolturi96
Summary: Katniss - .:.My heart stopped. My world ended. In that moment nothing more mattered to me than who's name had been called. Acacia Rue Mellark. My baby girl. My child.:. Welcome to 95th Annual Hunger Games...And may the odds be ever in your favor...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is my first Hunger Games and first ever fanfic. Hope you like it. I tried my hardest to make it seem like Suzanne Collin's actual writing, but I doubt I did. No one can really sound like her; she is such an amazing author. This isn't supposed to be my idea of the next book. This is like, after everything in the next two books. So yeah. =D (If you couldn't tell, I'm kinda team Peeta. Gale is freaking amazing, just not for Katniss.)  
I'm not really sure if I'm going to continue this fanfic. I have an idea, but it's still in the works. Sorry about any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors. I'm pretty sure I caught all of them but I'm not sure...  
Please comment. Everything from fixings to flames is excepted. =)  
**Also:** Does anybody know Gale's last name?? I couldn't find it anywhere! Help!

**Disclaimer: I am not Suzanne Collins, therefore I do not own The Hunger Games or any of it's characters.**

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_Deep in the meadow, under the willow  
A bed of grass, a soft green sky  
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes  
And when again they open, the sun will rise_

My mother's lullaby always runs through my head when I am here, in this position. I usually just push it aside without a second thought. Sometimes it encourages me; makes me think that she is proud of her little girl. And then sometimes, though very rarely, it makes me feel guilty. Reminds me that I should be doing something more productive, not sitting up in a tree or crouching in the tall grasses of the field outside our district.

Today is one of those guilty days. Today, I can't push her lullaby aside. _You shouldn't be here, _it seems to hiss at me. _You should be at home._

My finger twitches around the bow string. I strain my eyes and try to focus on the doe down below my hiding place in this old oak tree.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm  
Here the daisies guard you from every harm  
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
Here is the place where I love you_

I resist the urge to grunt. Instead I settle for a scowl. Yeah, I know I shouldn't be here and that I should be doing what my mother and father have asked of me. But I figure, since I am already in this tree, that I might as well finish what I started.

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away  
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray  
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay  
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away_

A sudden breeze whisks my ashy blond hair into my face, obscuring my vision. I try to move it out of the way with a small, subtle flick of my head, but it does not work. I give up and hope my aim is correct.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm  
Here the daisies guard you from every harm  
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
Here is the place where I love you _

I sigh and ease up with my bow arm in hearing the last verse of her lullaby in my head. I am free to brush my hair away from my face now, and in doing so I see that the doe is no longer alone. Two small fawns, unseasonably late, have leapt out of the bushes and were now grazing by their mother. If I had let go of the string, I most certainly have wiped them of their only protection. A small smile forms on my face, as my storm gray eyes scan the area almost automatically. I consider checking my few snares, but decide against it. Mother and Father will be mad enough at how late I am already. No need to test their patience on the day of the reaping.

I slowly slither out of the tree and land on the ground with a soft thud. The doe looks up, alarmed, and takes off her fawns close behind her. I put the arrow back into the pack on my back and start running swiftly towards the "electric" fence.

When I get there, I stop, hold my breath and listen, just to be sure. No buzzing. I'm safe. I drop to my stomach and crawl under the hole that was created long ago by who knows what. The very hole my mother used on this day years ago.

I take off running for home knowing that I will be in enough trouble as it is. I dodge the few people there are in the road and run through the streets at top speed. The entire way I am practicing a speech that will get me out of trouble. After I discard my 12th attempt, I figure sneaking in through my window might just be the best idea.

Okay, so maybe sneaking out and going hunting wasn't the best idea in the first place. But it had seemed like an excellent idea at the time. With my mother and father skulking about for the last month, I just needed a place to go that wasn't engulfed in pessimistic flames. I was at my wits end, I tell you.

I am just about out of the Seam when I crash straight into an obviously strong man with olive-toned skin and jet black hair.

"Ack!" I cry as I plow into him. "Oh gosh! Sorry! I wasn't paying attention!" He grabs my wrist to steady me, and then I get a good look at him. I can feel his gray eyes, so much like my mother's, burning into my skin as he recognizes me. He hates me. I'm sure of it.

"Acacia," He says curtly. I nod but say nothing. I look down at my feet and wait for him to say something. Finally his response comes. "Shouldn't you be at home, getting ready for the reaping?"

I nod. "That's where I was going . . ." I mutter. He nods again and eyes the bow in my hand and the arrows on my back. "So you were hunting instead of listening to your parents." He notes.

I look up into his face. "If I lie and say no, will that get me out of a lecture?" He chuckles and it lights up his face.

"So much like your mother . . . " He mused to himself. I feel a pang in my chest. He really still does love her. Even after all these years and watching her grow more and more distant from him. His best friend. He had watched her be sent off to die, believing he would never see her again. But she survived. And when she came back home, he was expecting his old friend who scoffed at the idea of love. Instead he got a girl changed by the games and in love, not with him, but the boy with the bread. Must have been hard.

"I'd better get going," I say stepping around him. He comes out of his flashback and nods. Quiet type of man. "Goodbye Gale," I say. Even though our families have been fighting ever since my parents got married, I still find Gale a pretty cool guy. Even if he hates me, which I'm pretty sure he does. "Good luck." He needs it. He has a son a year older than I am that will be entered in the reaping today. Just like every other kid from the aged of 12 to 18. Damn Hunger Games.

"Goodbye and good luck, Acacia." He says before he continues on down the street, not looking back. I wonder if he means it.

I push the thoughts out of my head and start running home. "Oh, I am _so dead._" I mutter to myself along with a few very creative swear words. Haymitch would be proud.

Speak of the devil. Just as I am rounding the corner and running into our neighborhood, I see Haymitch walk down the front path of my house and down the street to his own house. He grins -- though it looks more like he's planning ways to kill me than happiness -- and growls, "Well, well, well. What do ya know?"

"Hi Haymitch," I gasp coming to a halt in front of him, catching my breath.

He grunts and twists off the cap of the whiskey bottle he is holding. Then he proceeds to throw his head back and glug it down. He winces and shakes his head to relieve the burn. "You'd better get your ass home before your parents consider murder, sweetheart." He growls, taking another sip. I smile. This, coming from Haymitch, is like the ultimate gesture of love.

"I thought you gave up drinking," I shout as I start running again. He flips me off. I laugh and make my way for the house.

My parent's say that Haymitch has a soft spot for me. I really don't see how. He treats me as badly as everybody else. Except for those rare occasions when he warns me of my mother's wrath, like a moment ago, or when he gives me a genuine and true smile, but other than that, no.

I run around to the fence and open up the hatch. I close it behind me and make my way around the flower beds to the back yard, where I come to a very sturdy vine that is climbing up the red bricks. I sling my bow over my back and gab hold. I've become an expert at climbing this thing and can now do it in under 55 seconds. I clocked it.

When I get to the top, I make sure that my bow and arrows are succure, and I launch myself through my window. I land with a thump on the carpet.

A sigh of relief escapes my throat and I relax.

"ACACIA RUE MELLARK!" My mother screams. I scramble to get up and shove my gear under my bed. Just in time too. She pushes the door open to reveal herself standing there, looking extremely pissed. She is already dressed for the reaping in a yellow v-neck sun dress that compliments her gorgeously slim body with her hair cascading down her back in black waves.

"Where the _hell _were you?!" She shouts. I cringe away from her. She rarely ever gets mad at me, much less scream, but when she does, it is downright scary.

"Where do you think?" My father says, moving up behind my mother. His ashy blond hair, exactly like mine, is tousled and hangs down in his face creating the image of handsome. "Where would you be if you were her?" He asks her again. She huffs for an answer. He smiles and kisses her temple. "Hunting, of course." He says, answering his own question. My mother sighs and you can almost see the anger leaving her body. She can never really stay mad when my father tries to calm her down. She loves him too much. I resist the urge to sigh with newfound relief. My father looks up over her head and winks at me.

"Right," My mother exhales. "Just . . ." She shakes her head. "Just get ready and then come downstairs so I can fix your hair." She steps past my father and walks away. My father leans in to shut the door and whispers, "You're welcome."

"Thank you," I whisper back. He smiles and closes the door.

I turn to my closet and choose a pair of nice black pants and a cute red sweater. I'm not one for dresses and skirts. I guess I'm kinda like my mom in that way. She only wears dresses for special occasions like weddings and funerals.

And the reaping.

I shudder and close my closet doors, shedding my dirt covered clothes and stuffing the sweater over my head. When I sit down on my bed to put on my black flats I notice the picture of my parents on my night stand. I pick it up and gaze at them. It was taken the day they returned home from the Capitol, after their own Hunger Games. Both look a little on the hungry and pale side and I'm not sure if they were actually smiling, or if the facial expression was forced. They are holding hands.

That's my parents. The love birds of the Hunger Games. The first people to win for District 12 in a long time. The first ever two tributes to win at the same time. The great Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. I smile and shake my head. Even though I see them every year on television, at the capitol, training tributes; even though they are still looked upon with awe by everybody else, they will always be just Mom and Dad to me.

I set the picture down and put my shoes on. Then I grab my brush and clamber downstairs. My shoes make a soft thud as I hit the marble floor. I dash into my parents huge bedroom, which could probably have held half the coal in the District 12 mines.

My mother is standing in her bathroom, waiting for me. I walk up to her and hand her the brush. She motions for me to sit down in the chair in front of the mirror. I do.

She starts gently tugging at my hair with the brush. I gaze at my reflection, distinguishing my features. Hair from my dad. Eyes from my mom. Nose from my mom. Lips from my grandmother and my father's smile. Mother's shaped head and face, father's ears. Mother's build and mother's hands. Father's facial expressions. A mix of their skin tones. All in all, I look like a daughter of theirs should.

"Your hair is so beautiful," My mother says as her fingers twist it into an intricate shape on the top of my head. I smile and blush. When she is finished, she clasps my shoulders, leans down and kisses my cheek. I can tell she is afraid. Even though my father and her were winners, that does not promise me safety from the reaping. She runs her fingers through my side bangs, which she pulled over to one side, and sighs that worried-mother sigh. I try smiling, but it doesn't really work. Fear is building up inside of me like a storm. I can't ignore it anymore. Hunting did help get it off my mind, but only for a little while. Sooner or later I have to face the facts; today could be the day I am sentenced to die. Simple as that.

My father walks in and wraps my mother in a hug. She clings to him as he whispers, "She'll be okay,". I hear him, even though the whisper is not meant for me to hear. After a few moments, my mother lets go and steps back.

"Okay, we'd better get going."

I scoot off the chair and my father puts his arm around me. I lean into him and smile as he says, "You look beautiful, Rue." His nick-name for me. No one else has ever called me Rue except him.

We slowly make our way to the center of town. My parents wear wary looks on their faces. They don't want to have to face this again. Ever since they won the 74th Annual Hunger Games, the Careers of the games trained harder than ever to make sure that District 12 never disgraced their districts again by winning. No matter what tricks my parents get the Tributes of District 12 to pull, the Careers always seem to be one step ahead. We've only had 5 tributes from District 12 win since then but five tributes in twenty one years is better than two tributes in seventy-four years, like it was when my mom and dad were picked. And each of those five wins were mostly luck. But then, isn't it always a bit of luck that declares the winners?

Since Haymitch and my parents are still around, and there are four of the five other winners, the tributes get to pick who they want to train them. Guess who it usually is? Every now and then the tributes will mix it up and pick one of the other four tributes to be their trainers, but that rarely happens anymore. Not after what happened at the 81st Hunger Games. The winner the year before was named Henry Fable. He had won with flying colors and his trainers had been you know who. So the next year's tribute, a young girl by the name of Joyce Carilla, chose him and my parents got the year off. Joyce was only 12. Henry, who strongly hated the Capitol and the Hunger Games and probably would have partaken in the rebellion had he been alive 81 years ago, wanted to make a statement by helping her get out of the Hunger Games. To run away. So he did what no one has ever done; he tried to help her escape. He figured that there must be an edge to the arena. And since no one had ever tried to reach it, the Game Makers must watch is a lot less than other area's. So he trained her as well as he had been trained, but instead of the star-crossed lovers maneuver or the just-wait-it-out maneuver, he taught her to gather up supplies and travel to the edge of the arena, and he would help her escape.

At first, no one knew what Joyce's plans were. But when she was more than halfway to the edge, the Game Makers understood what Henry was trying to do and had him put to death on the stage where the winning tribute watched the highlights of the Games. But Henry had expected something like that would happen and had given the Game Makers and the authorities quite a bit of hell in trying to find them. And when they finally did, and the Game Makers could turn their full attention back to the arena, Joyce was gone. The final reminder of Henry Fable. They set off a cannon fire for Joyce, even though no body was found. She was declared, unspoken and unceremoniously, a winner in District 12. And let's just say that the Game Makers were not happy. The next year, they did all they could to make sure the tributes from District 12 died, which they did. My parents got in this huge argument with the Game Makers themselves that was broadcasted live across Panem. Not the first time they ticked off the Capitol.

But the Capitol couldn't torment Katniss and Peeta the next year. They had refused to train any tribute. The reason why? I had come along. Katniss, the girl who was on fire was now a mother, and President Snow himself (whom, sadly, is still alive) couldn't get her away from her baby girl. She had always said that bringing a child into this world was her worst nightmare, but once she found out that she was pregnant with me, she said she couldn't have been happier. My father stayed behind with her, and for four years, they refused to train anyone. But finally, the demand for them had gotten so high that they had to go off to the Capitol once again. So I was left with my Aunt Primrose for a few months, which I didn't mind in the least bit. I love my Aunt Prim. Whenever the sadness from missing my parents became so strong that I could barely sleep at night, she would sing me my mother's lullaby and let me eat candy. I know it doesn't seem like much, but it meant much more than I can say.

When I was eight, my parents took me with them to the Capitol. I was in awe of everything. I mean, I had seen the brightly colored hair and strange clothing and Scoring Test's of the Hunger Games on television with Aunt Prim, but seeing it up close was a whole different experience.

Anyway, I usually go with them to the Capitol now. I rarely talk to the camera's, unless they want to interview me because I'm Katniss and Peeta Mellark's daughter, but other than that, I keep to myself. I try not to talk to any of the tributes. I don't want to have to remember them after they are gone. It would be too hard, watching them die. I would remember what their voice sounds like, their laugh, how they stand, if they bite their lip or not, and remembering those little unimportant thing, as I watch them die is too hard. Trust me. I've gone through it before.

I am brought out of my thoughts by Effie Trinket's shrill voice. We are at the town center near the back with the other four winning tributes and Haymitch. The youngest, Clarissa, smiles at me. She is 18, but won five years ago. The last to win for District 12. I was there at that Hunger Games when she won. I remember my mother's happy cry and how she flung herself into my father's arms when Clarissa won. I remember one of the first people she hugged when she got out, besides my parents, was me. I remember it well.

"Well, here we are again! Picking tributes for the 95th Annual Hunger Games!" Effie Trinket's shrill voice is projected over the crowd. She seems overly happy, like always.

"Twenty-one years," My father whispers.

"It doesn't seem like that much," My mother whispers back. They are thinking of their Hunger Games.

"It is." Says one of the winners, John. His black curly hair is springy and flyaway as always. He was the tribute the year my parents got married. He was 18 at the time, making him the eldest winner after my parents. He often commented on remembering watching my parents in the Hunger Games. "You guys were 16 when you came back. Four years passed and you got married. Then three years later, Katniss gave birth to Acacia." He nodded towards me. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. We were all staring straight ahead. "Then four years of break for you two because you were new parents, then ten years of either training or watching the Games."

"I guess so," My father sighs.

"I hate that woman's voice," Haymitch says, taking another swig of whiskey, nodding towards Effie. My mother rolls her eyes while my father snorts. The rest of us just smile.

"And now, I am super happy to bring up District Twelve's past winners and this year's trainers!" Effie says with a little hop. The reaping is a sad and depressing day, but people can't help but smile and clap and cheer for the winners.

"And here we go," Haymitch tilts the bottle back to get the last bit of alcohol in his mouth and then proceeds to throw the glass bottle behind him. A second later it shatters on the ground somewhere. He walks forward and up onto the stage. My mother closes her eyes in annoyance but opens them when my father kisses the top of her head. Then they walk up to the stage as well. The cheers and claps intensify the slightest bit as they walk up. Then in order, one by one, the rest of the winners -- three boys and one girl -- follow.

Effie goes back into her usual happy-skippy pep talk about the games and I zone out. I look around and spot my beautiful Aunt Prim smiling at me. I smile back and make my way over to her.

"Hey, Acacia," She says.

"Hi, Aunt Prim." That is all the words we have time to exchange for everything has gone silent. It is time for the drawing to begin.

"Ladies first!" Effie says as always. She crosses over to the glass ball filled with the girls' names. She stuffs her hand inside and while she is rummaging around, she catches my eye and smiles. Effie is more or less a family friend. She can be annoying and shallow at times, and that voice of hers is like nails being scraped across a chalk-board, but we love her. Kind of.

I take my eyes from the glass ball to my parents. They are doing their best to look composed, but it's leaking though. Their worry. For me. This is probably the worst part of the reaping for them. The chance that I, their only daughter, will get picked.

But my name is only in that God-forsaken glass ball three times. But still. There is still a chance. At age twelve my Aunt had her name drawn. And it was only in there once. That was why my mother had volunteered as a tribute. To save her little sister.

Effie Trinket takes out the small piece of paper she has drawn. She opens it up with a bright, enthusiastic smile on her face. But as she reads the name, her smile fades. Anxiety builds up in my chest. _Don't be stupid. _I think to myself. _ Your name is only in there three times! What are the odds that that piece of paper says Acacia Rue Mellark?_

The entire District 12 is now holding their breath. The winners are leaning forward on stage, as if they might be able to hear that unspoken name. I find myself leaning forwards too.

Effie looks up. Her eyes seem to be glazed over. She mumbles something quietly. Something no one can hear.

"Well? Speak up, girl!" Haymitch barks. Effie clears her throat and tries again.

"This years girl tribute for District Twelve is . . ." She falters. Her voice is considerably lower, no longer squeaky and high-pitched. It actually compliments her. Who new that the tone of voice a person has can actually compliment their disposition?

". . . is . . ." She takes a deep breath and, much to my horror, looks right at me.

"Acacia Rue Mellark."

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**Katniss POV**

My heart stopped.

My world ended.

In that moment nothing more mattered to me than who's name had been called.

Acacia Rue Mellark.

My baby girl. My sweet, sweet daughter. My child.

Before I knew quite what was happening, I was up out of my chair.

_How could her name have been called? She's only fourteen! Her name was in that ball only three God damned times!_

"NO!" Someone's agonized voice cried out. I could almost recognize the voice. Was it Prim? Was she screaming for her only niece? Or was it Effie? Somehow I couldn't fathom Effie screaming with that sort of passionate misery.

Then I felt Peeta's arms wrap around me. Oh. I was the one screaming. That's why it sounded how it did. It was the sound of an anguished mother that had escaped my throat.

Not caring about the camera's all trained at my face, broadcasting this moment for the rest of Panem to see, I cry out again. I would have been bent over in agony if it weren't for Peeta. And yet, I didn't care if the cameras' saw my moment of pure weakness.

As I look out over the crowd of shocked faces I saw Prim crying. Tears were flowing freely from her blue eyes. And to her left was Acacia. My baby. Her face was a hard mask. Her fists were shaking at her sides and she was breathing hard. But beneath her mask of hatred, I can see that she is scared to death.

I don't blame her.

"Oh, God, please no!" I sob quietly. My daughter being forced into the Hunger Games at one of the worst times for District 12 tributes. No, this can't be happening.

Peeta is trying to tell me something but I don't hear him. I can't hear anyone right now. And just like when Primrose was called up, twenty-one years ago, it feels like the breath has been punched right out of me. I've grown tired of this feeling.

"Oh, God, there has to be something you can do," I say with all the strength I have left in my voice, which isn't much. Effie looks pained.

"I . . . I'm sorry Katniss. Once a tribute has been chosen, unless someone volunteers for them, they must go through with the games."

"Oh, God," I whisper again. If anyone was going to volunteer, they would have spoken up already. I shake my head over and over. This has to be a nightmare. It has to be.

Haymitch walks over and says quietly in my ear, "You're not helping her, sweetheart. She is used to seeing her mother be strong and brave and you are choosing this moment to break down?" He is being sympathetic even though his tone of voice does not show that. A small laugh on the brink of hysterics escapes my throat and Peeta looks at me strange.

I sink down into my seat, tears falling freely from my eyes now, and curl up against Peeta, sobbing quietly. He wraps his arms around me and whispers, "Shh . . . shh."

"Acacia Mellark?" The mayor says. "Please come up to the stage."

She starts walking forward. I can see one small tear escape her eye and another anguished cry threatens to make itself known. Her fists are still shaking and her head is looking at the ground. I can't stand it. I turn away.

Peeta starts stoking my hair. "Shh . . . baby, shh." He makes comforting noises but I can tell that his heart is breaking along with my own. I then utter one simple phrase.f

"Promise me she'll be okay,"

Because looking at my daughter a second ago, proved a few things.

She was trying to be brave.

She knew that this could be the last time she ever saw District 12.

And I knew that today had confirmed my worst fears: Having a child had resulted in sentencing said child to death.

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**Acacia POV**

"NO!" My mother screamed. The agony in her voice was almost impossible to withstand. I looked to the ground in an effort not to cry. My fists clench and I grit my teeth.

_Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry._ I chant to myself in my head over and over.

"Oh, Acacia. Oh, baby . . ." My Aunt says. She hugs me and I can feel the tears from her face falling in my hair. "Don't be afraid. You can do this." Lies, but I nod anyway.

"Oh, God, there has to be something you can do!" My mother says. I twist my head around so I can see her. My father is holding her in his arms and she looks like she is about ready to faint.

_Please. Please say something, Effie. Please tell her that you can just, draw the name again. Please. Please._

"I . . . I'm sorry Katniss. Once a tribute has been chosen, unless someone volunteers for them, they must go through with the games."

_No . . ._

She whispers something to herself and Haymitch walks over and says something in her ear. She let out this half-laugh half-sob thing and sank down into her chair. My father is trying to comfort her. I can tell.

"Acacia Mellark?" The mayor. "Please come up to the stage."

Against my better judgement, my smarter judgement, I start walking towards the stage. I keep my head down and my fists clenched. This can't be happening.

_But it is._

I can half see my mother turn away. Watching her daughter basically walk up to the gallows must be too much for her to bear. She buries her face in my father's shoulder and he holds on to her. I catch his eye and I can't tell what he is thinking. I suddenly remember what he told my mother about thirty minutes ago.

_'She'll be okay,'_

Oh, how wrong he was.

I go over and stand next to Effie. She nods and I feel not just District 12, but all of Panem, looking at me. I wish I could shy away. Just block them out. But I can't. This must be how it feels in the Hunger Games. Except no one is trying to kill me at the moment.

"And now for the boy," Effie mutters. She goes over and reaches in and takes out a piece of paper. She looks at it and reads off the name with the same ammount of sorrow. I have never seen Effie so full of an emotion that is not bubbliness. I don't hear the name that is called out. I am too engrossed in my thoughts. I have already taken apart in the games in every way, except actually compeating in them. Now that was about to change.

I hear my mother gasp and I look up as a boy a year and a half or so older than me walks up on the stage. My eyes and mouth open and I falter. Effie's hand steadies me as I look at the boy. It is Gale's son. He is tall with dark eyes and a muscular build. His olive-toned skin matches his father's but he has brown instead of black hair. He catches my eye and gives me a sympathetic look. I close my mouth and look ahead once again.

"Any volunteers?" The mayor asks. No one says anything. "Then that's it then. The tributes will be taken to the Justice Building and decide on their trainers."

The anthem starts playing. No matter how many deaths they cause, no matter how many lives they destroy, the Capitol will always look at this day like a holiday. I shake my head in disgust.

"Happy Hunger Games!" Effie says, trying to get back into her normal, high, bubbly tone of voice, as all the winning tributes stand up. My mother is still clinging onto my father. Effie goes over and shakes the boys hand. He looks like he is in pain. Then she briskly walks over to me, shakes my hand and gives me a hug and whispers something in my ear.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor. . . ."

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**A/N:** I thought that was pretty good. Please R&R and tell me if I should keep going with this, or is my writing sucks and I should stop before it kills someone. xP lol.  
Most, if not all, of the story is going to be in Acacia's POV. I just wanted to add in Katniss here so you could all see what was going though her mind as her daughter is called up to die. And I know that Katniss is usually kick-ass and amazing and doesn't let you know what she's feeling, but really. The girl's daughter just got called up to the Hunger Games and Katniss knows what it's like to train the tributes, and be apart of the Games herself, so you can't really blame her for being completely distraught  
For those who don't know, Acacia - Uh-KAY-shuh


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Wow! Thank you guys so so so much for your reviews and subscriptions and favorites! This story wasn't even posted five minutes and I already had three reviews and one subscription! =D You guys made my day!  
Also, sorry it took so long to get this chapter up! I know you guys have been waiting for it and thanks for being patient. I just couldn't figure out how to end this chapter. The next chapter will be up wayyyy quicker; I swear.  
In a review, laxgoal31 suggested Rue as a middle name for Acacia, so that is what it changed to. Credit to the middle-name change goes to him. =)  
I couldn't figure out what Gale's last name was so I made one up. I like it, but if someone finds out or already knows what his real last name is, please tell me. I would be eternally grateful _and _I would give you a cookie! =3  
Also, I'm thinking about looking for a Beta so if anyone is familiar with the art and is interested, PM me. =)

Thanks so much again for your support! =D

**Disclaimer: I am not Suzanne Collins, therefore I do not own The Hunger Games or any of it's characters.**

* * *

The Peacemakers drag us away. A large, bulky man had Gale's son -- Storm -- by the arm. And a stick-like, greasy, all together disgusting man had me.

"Walk a little faster, sweetheart." He hisses. I grit my teeth. Haymitch calls me sweetheart, yes, but Haymitch says it in a tone that holds sarcasm but also a little bit of gentleness and caring. Emphasis on the _little bit_. When this man says that word, it just makes you want to shudder.

We are marched up the stairs of the Justice Building and down a long brown hallway. Suddenly shouts and arguing erupt behind us, outside the Justice Building. Storm and I look over our shoulders.

The two men holding us drop their hands. "Stay here," The big man says. "We'll be right back."

"And don't even think about trying to run away," The grease-ball adds. His voice could peel back paint. I grimace.

"Please," I scoff, sounding dangerously like my mother. "We're not that stupid." The thin man narrows his eyes but turns and runs after the bulky one. And I am left here, in a hallway with a boy that I might have to kill. Luckily, my back is turned to him so I don't have to see the emotions running through his eyes.

"Hey," He says suddenly. He grabs my wrist and I twist around with a predator-like glare on my face. He seems a little taken aback from my reaction, but I don't care.

"What?" I practically snarl. I don't want to know him. I don't want to be his friend. It would make watching him die harder. That is, of course, if I didn't die first.

_Stop, _I think to myself. _You're already giving up hope. That's why so many tributes always die from the poorer Districts: They give up hope. _

"I'm guessing you want your parents to train us." It's not a question. It's a statement. I blink, and for the first time, I'm not so sure I want my parents with me in the Capitol. I already saw my mother and father's reaction to my being chosen. What would they be like when every second in the Arena could be my last? Especially if they could do something about it?

"Probably." I mumble. "Why?" I suddenly snap.

He holds up his hands as if surrendering. "Hey. Calm down. It's okay, it was just a statement."

"Oh, _don't tell me to calm down._" I am seething by this point. "Don't you _dare _tell me to calm down. I've just been chosen for the Hunger Games in one of the worst times for District Twelve tributes! Not to mention my parents are hated by the Game Makers, making me a primary target! So, _don't tell me to calm down._"

"Well, I'm also a tribute for District Twelve, but you don't see me biting people's heads off." He shrugs, nonchalantly.

"Now, see? There's a question. Why are you so calm?" I bite back, though he is obviously not challenging me.

He shrugs again. "I expected I would get picked."

"You _what?_" Getting picked was one thing in our District, hoping or expecting to get picked was another.

"You see," He starts off, stuffing his hands in his pocket. "Every year, I notice one thing about the tributes that get chosen: They wish so intently that they won't get picked, and they push the reaping out of their minds with a joke about Effie's voice or Haymitch and his drinking problem, that they actually start believing they won't be chosen. Then, when they are, the surprise is so much that they give up hope and they usually die." He says this like this topic is the most comfortable in the world. "So, I figure, if I believe that I _will _get picked, it won't be as much of a surprise and I won't feel like giving up and dying."

I just stand there blinking and gaping at him. It is about a minute of awkwardness before he speaks again. "It's worked so far."

Recovering my voice I say, "You're insane."

He shrugs, hands still in his pockets. "I've been called worse."

"Oh, I bet you have."

"Look, all I'm saying is that if you want your parents to train us, then that is fine with me." His hand reaches out as if he is about to rest it upon my shoulder but I step back before his skin comes in contract with my red sweater.

"Are you trying to be nice?" I ask him as the two Peacemakers walk up looking flustered.

"All right, enough chitter chatter," The bulky one says. He goes towards a door at the far end of the hallway, motioning for Storm to follow him. I ignore the bulky man and try again.

"Are you trying to be nice to me?" My voice sounds spiteful, even though I try to make it sound like I am asking a genuine question that I want to know the answer to.

He snorts. "Of course not." He leans in close to my face. "That would be insane." Then, without another word, he turns and walks towards the Peacemaker and walks into his room. The Peacemaker says a few things to him then shuts and locks the door.

Without warning, I am suddenly grabbed by the arm and pushed into the room I am standing in front of. My shoes catch on the pouffy carpet and I trip and fall. The greasy man hisses out a laugh and closes my door. I hear it lock with an ominous _click_.

Gritting my teeth, I stand up and look around the room. It has thick, rich carpet, which I have already had the pleasure to meet, velvet couches and leather chairs. I walk over to a red velvet couch, sit and wait. For what, I am not sure.

A few minutes later, I am already retreating back into my thoughts to keep from facing the reality of the games, when I hear a wave of arguing voices, steadily becoming louder.

I start when the door is suddenly wrenched open and in file eight different people, all arguing and trying to get their voice above the others. Behind them is a younger, newer Peacemaker. He must have just become a Peacemaker, for he looks quite nervous as he opens his mouth to probably point out that there is only one person allowed in at a time to see a tribute. But my father beats him to the chase and slams the door in his surprised face.

My mother and father no longer look weak and horrified; instead they look murderous and ready to kill. Haymitch is arguing with Effie and the other four winning tributes are just standing behind, looking agitated but scared and worried at the same time. Their emotions frighten me the most. When four people whom have gone through the Hunger Games and have lived to tell the tale look like that, you know something is wrong.

"In case you've forgotten Haymitch, I am not the Capitol and I have no say in the rules of the Hunger Games so I can do nothing about who is chosen! So stop blaming me for the inevitable." Effie and Haymitch were glaring at each other intensely now.

"Agh," Haymitch waves his grime-covered hand in her face and takes a swig of alcohol that he has produced out of somewhere.

My mother's eye's soften a great deal when they land on me. "Oh, Acacia! Oh my baby! Oh, honey!" She rushes forward, tears already threatening to form and enfolds me in a hug. I think nothing of my age and hold on tightly. Sometimes, a hug from your mother is all you need.

"Momma, I'm scared," I whisper only to her. And I know only she can hear. _Momma_. Now there's a word I haven't used in six and a half years.

"I know, sweetie, I know." She whispers back.

"Acacia," My father says. His voice is tight and strained. My mother and I pull back and look over at him. The emotions on his face are hard to decipher, but I think I can see most of them. The important ones anyway. Anger and hatred at the games and the Capitol. Fear for me. And that distant look in his eyes is from when he and my mother had to go through this same process. A slow parade into almost certain death. Oh, how very lucky of me.

"Dad," I all but whisper. I gently push my mother back and stand up. I make my way over to my father at a walking pace though I want to scream his name and run as fast as I can. When I reach him I instantly wrap my arms around him and he holds me tight, resting his head on my ashy gold hair. In my flats I only come up to the middle of his chest, so I am an inch or two smaller than my mother, whom is 5 feet 7 inches. We both, somehow, fit under his chin.

He smoothes back my hair and murmurs sweet nothings into my hair like he did when I was little and afraid. I tighten my grip and try to fight tears. After a few minutes I let go and allow everyone else to give me a small hug. Again: A parade into death.

My mother wipes her eyes and straightens up. "Acacia Mellark," She starts, sounding all business like. "Later you will meet with the other tribute and discuss whom you would like to train you. Then you shall be escorted to the Justice Room and proclaim your decision. You will then spend the night in District Twelve, and leave for the train first thing in the morning." I nod, unable to make my voice work. "Acacia," She says more gently. More like a worried mother or sister or aunt. "Don't be afraid of not choosing your father and I as your trainers. This decision is all up to you and Storm. Don't be afraid of letting us down or anything. Just focus on staying alive." I nod again, focusing my eyes on anything but the people in my room.

"Hey!" Someone pounds on the door. "One at a time in there!" I'm guessing it's not the newer, nervous Peacemaker. My father turns around and slams the door with the palm of his hand. That quiets them for a while.

"Peeta, please." Clarissa says. She grabs John and Mitchell by the arm and motions for Landon to follow her. "We'll leave." She goes towards the door, the other three following in her wake. She opens the door and give an apologetic smile to the Peacemaker standing there. Then she twists her head around and gives me a sympathetic smile. "Good luck, Acacia." Then she leaves. The rest follow her. Landon is the last one out the door. He slowly turns around and looks at me. He has always been the quiet type of man that no one ever expects will win. But he did. And now here he is. He looks me in the eye and nods and says, "Yeah. Good luck, Acacia. In these games, you're going to need it." He turns without another word and walks away, shutting the door behind him.

My mother starts crying softly again. "Mom," I say numbly, not really aware of anything around me. "Please don't cry. I'll be all-" That's when I realize that I can't say the words I know are a lie. I can't say that I will be all right. I couldn't lie to her like that. I couldn't lie to anyone like that. I clear my throat and try again. "Please don't cry. I hate to see you and dad worry about me like this." Okay, not really a lie but not exactly the truth. I don't mind when my parents fuss over me. They aren't too extravagant on that subject, and it shows me that they really do care about what happens to me. Not that I would need any more convincing, but . . .

"I'm your mother," She tries to say sternly. It doesn't really work. I turn around and look up at her. She is stubbornly wiping away tears from her face and smiling at her foolishness. Personally, I don't think crying is all that foolish, but oh well. My father is looking at her with gentle love and sadness in his eyes. "I can worry about you any damn time I want." She smiles through her tears again. I smile back. She rarely ever swears unless it is necessary for the moment at hand.

Well, I think this situation calls for it, don't you?

Still smiling, she wraps me in her arms again. I don't resist. Instead, I allow myself to cry the slightest bit into her hair. But after my small, controlled tears form into heart-wrenching sobs, I realize that crying might just be the best thing for me right now.

My mother leads me over to the red velvet couch and sits herself and I down. I am still crying and clinging to her. My sobs are starting to actually hurt now. She starts humming a soft, sweet tune into my ear and the pain in my chest recedes somewhat. I am still sobbing, but as I start to calm down, the humming takes on a familiar tune. I quiet my sobs as much as I can; I want to hear her when she starts singing. It will give me something of her to hold onto.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow  
A bed of grass, a soft green sky  
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes  
And when again they open, the sun will rise_

Her voice is gorgeous and I am stuck in awe of it, just like every time I hear her sing. My memory does not do her voice any justice. I huddle down in her arms and allow myself to _feel _for the first time since my name was drawn out of that glass bowl.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm  
Here the daisies guard you from every harm  
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
Here is the place where I love you_

Crying and being held in her arms like this makes me feel like I am a little girl again. The little girl who dwells in those pictures on our wall and mantle at home. A small girl with adorable, bouncy blond curls, (my hair was curly when I was younger) storm gray iris's, delightful little smile and gleaming eyes.

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away  
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray  
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay  
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away_

But at the same time, I have never felt farther from that little girl in the pictures. In fact, I don't even feel like the girl who was hunting up in a tree only a few hours ago. It feels as if I have aged a good ten years since then. It's amazing what death can do to a person.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm  
Here the daisies guard you from every harm  
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true . . .  
_

I don't mean to, but I am starting to drift off here, in her arms, listening to her voice. My mind lazily goes over the last few lines of her lullaby; where everything is safe and warm and daisies guard you from harm and every worry is washed away by the morning light.

And that's when I realize how wrong a small and comforting lullaby can be.

_Here is the place where I love you . . ._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

An hour later I wake up to find myself curled up on one end of the soft couch with a warm blanket pulled over my shoulders, most likely by my parents. I yawn and look up at the small window near the top of the room, if you could call it that. More like a prison cell if you ask me. The sun is already sinking lower into the sky. I hurriedly throw the blanket off and stand up. In only about an hour, at dusk, I will be asked to state Storm and I's trainers for the games. Just like the reaping officially starts at dawn and the names are drawn at noon, we will chose our trainers at dusk. It's tradition.

_Tradition, _I scoff to myself. _What does tradition mean to me now? Because of tradition I am sentenced to die. _

At that moment, for some reason, I think of my Aunt Primrose. Has she been by to see me, only to find me fast asleep? Surely she would have woken me up!

_You'll see her soon enough. Right now, just stay focused on what you need to do. Find Storm and talk about trainers. _

I walk over to the door and wrench it open. The only problem? It doesn't open. It's locked. I try pulling it a few more times, as if it would just miraculously open. But it doesn't.

For some reason, this just ticks me off. I cry out in frustration and slam my hands against the door much like my father did not too long ago. When this stirs no reaction from beyond the door, I cry out again and kick the door. But nothing happens. I didn't really expect anything to, but I still fall on my knees with bitter tears streaming down my face.

"They think they can just -- just keep me locked up in here like this!" I hiss to myself. _Of course they can, _A part of my tells myself. _They can do whatever they want. You are just a tribute. What do you matter? Now stop crying. Crying never fixes anything._

As much as I hate to admit it, that part of me is right. I am just a tribute and crying never really does fix anything. Yes, it does make you feel better, but in the end, the problem is still there and you still have to change it. Crying doesn't do that. Besides, I have cried enough for one day. If I keep this up, I will look puffy-eyed and teary when I arrive in the Capitol for everyone to see. That will only give the Careers more of an incentive to kill me.

So I stop my tears and go back over to the velvet couch, where I fall down onto my back with an exasperated groan.

I stay in that position until I hear my door open. Then I prop myself up to see my visitor.

It's Storm. He closes the door behind him and stands there as if waiting for me to say, "Welcome to my lovely home! Here, let me give you a tour."

Instead, I demand, "How did you get out?"

"I picked the lock." He lifts his hand up and picks his teeth with a bobby pin looking either pleased with himself or nonchalant. I can't decide.

"Where did you get a bobby pin?" I ask, my voice uncross with him for probably the first time today. The Peacemakers don't let anything like that into our holding areas incase we decide we want to try to escape.

"That," He says, sticking the bobby pin in his pocket and walking towards me. "is beside the point." He walks over to the couch and I move to make room for him. I don't feel like fighting. Not now.

"So, trainers . . ." He casts me a look out of the corner of his eye. "Your parents?"

"I don't know," I mumble. "Did you have anyone else in mind?"

"Whoa whoa whoa. Back up and freeze." He twists around to see me with such speed, that I automatically cringe away. "Sorry," He says apologetically. "I can be really fast sometimes." I just raise my eyebrows and shut my mouth, because I know if I say anything it will be a sarcastic remark and I may loose the chance to hear what Storm has to say. "You _don't _want your parents to be with you in the Capitol as your trainers?"

"_Our_ trainers," I correct. "And, like I said before, I don't know. You saw how they reacted at the reaping. What will they be like when I am fighting for my _life_?"

"Technically, when _we _are fighting for _our _lives, but whatever," He grins and I scowl. He somehow knows exactly how to annoy me. I hate it. "And if your parents have shown the people of Panem anything while they have been up in the Capitol, training tributes, it's that they can be completely guarded and steadfast when they need to be. They wouldn't let emotions get in the way, no matter how strong." He gives me a weird look. "You of all people should know that. . . ." When I say nothing, he smirks. "Funny. Son of one of their enemies knows more about Katniss and Peeta Mellark than their own daughter does."

"Pfft. Please. You don't know anything about my parents." I bristle.

"Hey!" Someone pounds on the door, causing us to jump. "Who's in there?!"

"No one out of the ordinary!" Sings Storm in a mocking, high-pitched tone. He turns back to me. "So, who else is there?" Back on the subject of trainers.

"Well," I start, my voice loosing it toxicity. "There's always Haymitch."

Storm snorts and holds both of his hands palms up, moving them up and down, imitating an object being weighed on a scale. "Hmm. Leaders of five tribute wins for District Twelve in twenty-one years, or drunken old fool?" False contemplation crosses his face and a I start to giggle.

"Hey," I point out, still smiling. "That 'drunken old fool' helped my parents win and ultimately started that chain of reactions which led to the five tribute wins in twenty-one years." Storm laughs.

"You got me there," He smiles and looks down at the ground, thinking. As I look at him the smile melts off my face.

_No, _I think. _I don't want to be friends with him. Because sooner or later, we will be forced to be enemies. _

I quickly stand up, causing Storm to look up at me questioningly.

"You'd better go," I say, pointing at the door. Confusion crosses his face but he shrugs it off and stands up.

"Sure." But he doesn't move. He just stands there looking at me. I huff and push him forward with my hands.

"Go! You're going to get us both in trouble, we're not even to the Capitol yet!"

"Hey . . . that's gotta be a record or something we can break . . ."

"Go!"

"Alright!" He starts moving on his own towards the door. He opens it up to a very angry looking Peacemaker (insert irony here). He smiles and lifts his hand up to the top of his head, imitating tilting a hat in respect. I giggle again and the Peacemaker just looks more murderous. After Storm is out of the way, he slams the door shut, causing a picture in the room to fall to the ground. My smile recedes and I put my face in my hands. I will not be friends with Storm, or any other tribute in this bloody Hunger Games (no pun intended). I move back over to the couch and just sit there, unsure of what to do next.

And that is how I sit, for the next thirty minutes. Unmoving, emotionless.

And I wait.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Acacia Rue Mellark, are you alright with the fact that a journalist from the Capitol will be writing down most of what happens in this room today to be printed in the Capitol's newspapers?" Effie Trinket asks me as I stand next to Storm in the Justice Room. The winning tributes are all seated in the area's usually reserved for the jury or witnesses for normal court cases. I glance over to the right and notice that what Storm said earlier is true: _"And if your parents have shown the people of Panem anything while they have been up in the Capitol, training tributes, it's that they can be completely guarded and steadfast when they need to be. They wouldn't let emotions get in the way, no matter how strong." _ Their faces are hard and expressionless. In fact, they aren't even looking at me.

I focus my attention back on Effie and the journalist from the Capitol. He has a brown jacket and hat on with denim jeans, a pencil behind his ear and one in his hand and a notepad in the other hand. He is poised, ready to write.

I nod. "This information is going to get to the Capitol anyway. Might as well be sooner rather than later." Effie nods and the journalist jots something down. Something tells me that even if I had said no, he would have written down my every word and then have it broadcasted to the Capitol by the morning anyway.

"And you, Storm Aaron Maefield?"

"Fine with me."

"Good." Effie looks down at the podium as if she is looking at notes. She then looks back up at Storm and I. "You two have decided on a trainer or trainers then?"

Storm and I look at each other. With an unspoken agreement we both say, "Yes,"

"Okay. You may now state your decision."

I look back at Storm but he is now looking straight ahead with a small, barely visible, mischievous smile on his face. I wonder what he is up to.

I look back at Effie and open my mouth to state our decision, even though we didn't really talk about it. I don't feel comfortable speaking for Storm, so I say, "I choose Katniss and Peeta Mellark." My parents nod but other than that, no bodily movement is noticeable. The journalist observes this and wildly scribbles something down.

Effie smiles and says in her bubbly tone, "It's settled then. You shall join up with your trainers tomorrow on the train headed for the Capitol." People are starting to get up when Storm silently holds up his hand, the mischievous smile completely evident on his face. Everyone stops.

"You have something to add, Mr. Maefield?" The mayor asks, skeptically.

"Yes, I do." Storm says matter-of-factly. He clears his throat and starts.

"Acacia Rue Mellark chose Katniss and Peeta Mellark, and I, Storm Aaron Maefield choose Haymitch Abernathy."

* * *

**A/N: **Please review. Thanks so much!!! =D You guys are awesome. *hug*  
Also, I might have a poll on what Cinna's ideas for the interview outfits. Might. I'm still deciding whether or not to keep my idea's a secret. ...Bwahahahaha.... =3


	3. UPDATE Gotta read

(Ok so normally I hate these things in the middle of a story, especially when you are expecting more and then you just get an update, that annoys me, but I have to tell you guys this.)

**UPDATE: **

Ok, hey guys, first off, I want to apologize for not writing in a hella long time. I have had an extremely hectic summer and with school and everything, it's all been....whoa. xP If that makes sense. Again, sorry. I just didn't want to write for the longest time. Idk what it was I just put it all off. Which is really horrible cause it was a tool to help me escape reality and remain sane =P lolz jk but still. ...It's kinda annoying that I'm talking in text talk, isn't it? Ok I shall stop.

ANYWAY! I just want to say thank you to everyone who has favorite/subscribed/reviewed to My Mother's Lullaby. I know I never did get back to half of you, but it really means a lot to me and I am thanking every one of you right now. I think I still have most of the notifications cause I told myself I would go back and say thanks. =P But yeah, anyway, thank you guys. I love you 3

Alright now to what I really made this for. And this is going to involve a bit of trust in me, which is asking a lot, but I swear to God, everything I am about to say is 100% true. Ok so I just finished Catching Fire (I know, I know, took me long enough, right? I actually didn't get it for a while after it came out so I HAVE AN EXCUSE!) and because of Catching Fire, I may not be able to continue My Mother's Lullaby. And no, it's not something I can easily fix by saying, "Written before Catching Fire, takes place as though Catching Fire and third book in the trilogy never happened." ...Well, I guess I could say that but it would sound pretty horrible. Anyway, this is the reason why: One: I swear to God, Suzanne Collins is a mind reader or I'm psychic. Not even joking right now. (This is the part you need faith in me.) I swear right now, that we came up with basically the same idea, and no not the one about her being pregnant. The whole thing with the (**SPOILER ALERT! IF YOU HAVEN'T READ CATCHING FIRE AND YOU READ THE NEXT PART, DON'T GET MAD AT ME FOR YOUR OWN STUPIDITY...UNLESS YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT RUINING A MAJOR PART OF THE BOOK! That will be all, thank you.) **force field and how they escaped through the side of the arena, was my idea for MML (My mother's lullaby in case you couldn't figure it out. I'm just too lazy to write out the title. xP says a lot, huh?) and I'm not saying that she stole anything, no way. We just think alike xP. But that's not all. I also had the idea for the differentness of the arena, though it wasn't like a clock and - here's the big part - how when they escaped, a District 13 hover car (was a group of ppl in mine) picked them up and Storm and Acacia were separated but taken to the rebellion. And how District 12 was destroyed. .....yeah I know it sounds like I had no idea where to go with my story from where I left off so I made an elaborate excuse, but I swear on my life that those were also my ideas. So you see, I can't really continue my fan fic because it would be so much like Catching Fire, that it would seem....weird, ya know? Sigh. Really bums me out. I can probably alter it to my other idea, but it won't be as epic.....I'm still gonna bring in District 13 tho.

Ok so yeah that made me sound like either a horrible liar, totally looney or a bitch. Sigh. I swear it's the truth! Sounds far fetched but honest to god. *nods*

Moving on. Thanks again guys, I'll figure something out, feel free to tell me what I should do or call me a liar or back me up or talk about cheese! I'm good with all. Thank you guys, so much. OH! And thanks for telling me what Gale's last name was. =) Funny how it never mentions it in the first one, but does in the second one. Idk just kinda funny. I can't go back and change chapter 2 but if I continue writing this, it will be Hawthorne from now on so don't get confused. =P

Thanks guys for putting up with me. =) I will actually start writing again if this works out. ....hopefully. =)

Love ya all 3

~_Jane_

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